The Dry Spell by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
Download the book in PDF, ePub, Kindle for a complete version.
Chapter 11
April 7, 2008: Anxiously waiting for spring, teased by afternoon solar displays. Gray, below freezing mornings with patchy light gray and white sky. Gusting wind propelling dead brown grass, tumbleweed, newspapers, empty “Good and Plenty”
boxes and restrictions.
I think I’m an optimist and consequently wind up disappointed. This morning is another good example of that.
Last night, as every night for the last month, I went to bed expecting to wake up to the season’s first warm morning and when tomorrow came I brought the garbage out to the garage and smoked a cigarette. Before taking Daisy on our excursion, I could see and feel that I again, would have to wait for another tomorrow.
When I woke her, my puppy’s happy face always cheers me up.
I clear out her eyes, as she rolls on her back getting her belly rubbed. I think she’d rather stay here and do this than go out and get accosted by pests, but she in turn, thinks that I want to go. I pet her about five minutes, telling her that “I love my little Daisy,” and grab her front paws, as she play bites my fingers. When I feign hurt, she licks my face, to say “I’m sorry.” I settle into rubbing her belly again until she’s ready. We struggle our way out of the development past the
“friendly” loose dogs and the “friendly” interesting people who
Page 137
just happen to be doing something important on the road in front of one-third of the houses at 7:00 AM on an ugly morning, perhaps, their presence contributing to the assessment. Despite five years of experience Daisy still thinks that there is some benefit in greeting them and attempts to pull me over to each.
When she is able to they invariably proceed to ignore her, say a terse “’morning,” turn away and start their busy day by picking up the garbage blown into their driveways and go back into their mansions, taking a window seat, to watch for the next excitement in their fully booked day. I’m thankful that at least I don't have to hear a rendition of the problems they’re having with their begonias and be expected to act as if I care. As we leave the development I tell Daisy that we have again performed the miracle of waking the dead.
As we navigate Academy Road and the Seventh Day Adventist Enterprises, Inc. facilities we are too early to enjoy the harried women driving their kids to the school, but as usual the stylish matron adorned in Wal-Mart’s finest, fearful of any type of excrement on business property, comes out to raise Old Glory, an operation requiring ten minutes despite all her practice.
She doesn't look directly our way, but she establishes a presence on the hallowed ground of her employer, thankful for the remuneration that allows her to be so finely attired,
Page 138
probably ignorant of the fact that the property was once a sludge farm.
The ditch path is annoying to my baby as the intermittent breeze kicks up some of the dry dirt into her face and eyes, but she bravely continues on, looking forward to getting to her favorite place, the Bosque. She moves quickly, paying no heed to the usual Gawks out for their morning driveway constitu-tional. They move so slowly displaying frozen faces, Daisy may not recognize them as living things, as she makes no attempt to meet them, depriving me of more potential “’Mornings.”
Trying to hide my crushed status, I follow Daisy to the end of the road, cross Corrales Road to Romero to find a new potential obstacle and Daisy slows down to a crawl as she sees a 5’6”, 300 pound gentleman, bent over low with redneck cleavage advertised, putting the finishing touches on a green metal gate fifty feet from the road. Today it is in the open position and Daisy moves on curious to see the obscene bottomless teases. I don't know what this is for, except instinctively surmising that it’s nothing for anybody’s good. As she tries to go over to put a dollar in the appropriate crack I hold her back saying a forceful “No, no, no, no, no.” The half bald, half three day growth head and face, stands up and turns toward us. I can’t tell a person’s age when they look like that. It could be
Page 139
anywhere between an unfortunate thirty and seventy. He gruffly says; “You got a problem?”
I’m not sure if that’s a declarative or questioning statement. No doubt I have a few, but telling this geek about it won’t do me any good. So, I choose to answer the commentary assuming it was of the declarative variety, the same way I always do when I want, need and desire to cut off a stupid conversation, saying, “**** you” using one hand’s long finger to say “hello” in Eskimo. The mixed message must have confused him, as he said nothing and curiously watched us walk down the road. I was to later learn that this was the crack volunteer fireman, who deemed it appropriate to gate the only public access road to the Bosque in Corrales, in the interest of fire prevention. I wondered who supplied the $10,000 poorly painted green obstacle.
The day got more glorious when we finally entered the Bosque, going around the closed gate and moving downhill to the river. Often, today being no exception, the trees and lower land afford protection from the blustering wind. As the sun continues to choose to refrain from participation, the morning has not been conducive to warmth and at least a temporary reprieve from the wind is a Godsend.
We do our usual picking around in the bushes and tall weeds, Daisy frantically sniffing for something. She’s quite a
Page 140
tracker. I can see over the inflated pasture and find her source of excitement. It’s a small coyote who often plays hide and seek with her, backtracking, circling, getting behind and confusing my puppy. Daisy’s usual pattern is to walk out on one path or non-path and come back on another to relieve the boredom, but today after walking about a mile she stops on a dime and heads back the same way she came. In about ten seconds, we see, walking straight at us, the little coyote with its head to the ground looking contented and playful.
It must have heard us and looked up when it was about twenty feet away. Its eyes bugged out and it got a look on its face that said; “Oh, ****,” and it took off running like hell through the brush. Daisy tries to follow, but I can’t keep up and we quickly lose sight of our playmate.
We’re already on our way home and when we again near Romero Road, we see Hilda, who we’ve seen off and on for years. She’s walking her friendly black dog, Chief and says; “Hi, what are they doing at the end of the road?” Whenever she talks to me she looks directly at my crotch. She’s never done or said anything the slightest bit suggestive, so I’ve concluded that she is either cross eyed in the wrong direction or just likes to look, so when I talk to her I focus on her crotch. I say;
“Somebody just put up a gate.”
“Why?”
Page 141
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask him. He got cranky with me.”
I laughed.
She said, again with her eyes below belt level; “They keep doing all these stupid projects around here lately. I wish they’d let everything alone. The place has managed very well over the years without their help.”
As I was trying to determine if she was wearing any underwear I said; “I couldn’t agree more. Don’t fool with Mother Nature.”
She nodded and turned to continue her walk away from us and I continued my view from the rear, wishing her pants were tighter. Could I be mistaken, or is the sun trying to protrude from the clouds.
As we walked back home Daisy still suffered the blowing dirt and wanted to go fast. I did my honest best, but I couldn’t keep up with a Dalmatian, even were it forty years prior. We got back home in the absence of company, the
“friendly” fossils, apparently having had their quota of excitement earlier in the day.
After lunch and a nap I decided to fill the rest of the dismal day with phone calls. I didn’t expect any straight forward answer about the gate, but had now lived here long enough to know how to play the game of acting nice, innocent and stupid, at the same time annoying someone. In an attempt to
Page 142
perfect the mood I wanted I listened to Patti Smith sing
“Cartwheels.”
I knew that the Bosque had to be considered “wetlands,”
putting it under the jurisdiction of the federal government, but it seemed obvious to me that they were not responsible for the gate, as their concern was floods, not helped greatly by obstructed entrances. I know; logic and government don’t go together. But, the only other choice is to get bogged down in contradictory interminable details. The Bosque is actually an odd shaped skinny State Park and I’m told that they are the only ones with real authority to close it and since it was still open elsewhere in New Mexico I dismissed them. The Middle Rio Grande Conservation District, an agency of the state government entered my mind. As the agency is filled with relatives of minor political hacks who can’t get a job elsewhere, I didn’t think they would want to rock the boat.
I called the Corrales municipal government and was told that they didn’t know anything about the gate, referring me to the Corrales Bosque Advisory Commission, distributors of the orange and green fishnet jackets, who also claimed no involve-ment. The guy on the phone was personable and chatty, no doubt happy to have someone to advise. I asked polite questions about their areas of concern, hoping that I might hear something leading me in another direction, as I was at a dead end. After
Page 143
pretending rapt interest in their vague modus operandi, I was rewarded by the advice that; “If I were you I’d call the fire department.”
So I tried the sixth government agency claiming authority over the five mile strip of land.
A lady sounding as if she graduated high school with ease answered the phone, saying; “Good afternoon, Fire Department.”
“Hello, my name is Edward Drobinski and I’m interested in obtaining information about the gate.”
“What gate?”
“The one put up today on Romero Road.”
“Oh, yes. It’s open, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but I’d suspect that one day it will be closed, unless the Fire Department spent taxpayer money to establish a perennially open gate.”
“Let me transfer the call.”
I heard an officious female voice say; “This is Gale Dempsey, spokesperson for the Fire Department.”
“Hi, this is Ed Drobinski, spokesperson for no one. Ha, ha. I’m curious about the intent of putting the gate on Romero Road. I gather that the Fire Department is responsible??
“Yes, we are responsible. Its purpose is to prevent parked cars from blocking the road when the fire danger is extreme, to ensure access by our fire trucks.”
Page 144
“I have been walking there virtually every day for four years and have never seen the road blocked in any way. The fact that the gate was put up fifty feet back from Corrales Road means that parked cars would still be able to block access from the other side. And, other unblocked private roads could be used for access.”
She politely listened and addressed by observations in order saying; “I suppose that you have not seen the road 24
hours a day. We will be installing ‘No Parking’ signs in the fifty foot area. And the gates on the private roads are often closed.”
While two of the answers were not particularly satisfying, I thought I had a stronger, simpler argument concerning the middle one and said; “Well, if you think ‘No Parking’ signs will do the job on the first fifty feet, why not forget that gate and put signs on the rest of the road?”
She became obtuse, I believe purposely and said; ‘As I’ve already said, the gate was established to ensure fire truck access.”
I could see that this line of conversation had reached a practical end, so I tried; “Is the fire chief an elected position?”
“No.”
“Who is he appointed by?”
Page 145
“The mayor.”
“For what interval?”
“Not specified.”
I said; “Thank you, very much,” and hung up, hoping that they would now be concerned with a possible call from the mayor, probably the biggest annoyance I could achieve. I visualized the day of a fire, when the volunteers come screaming down Corrales Road and the front truck stops at the gate. One guy says; “Okay, open the gate,” and he’s answered with; “I thought you had the key,” at which point the first guy checks his crack.
Page 146